


Beauty of our Sin

by readtolive



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Ancient Customs, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, First Time, Fucking, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Very Painful First Time, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 04:59:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12810144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readtolive/pseuds/readtolive
Summary: "Stiles screamed at that, his broken voice even louder in the dark silence of the room, and fresh tears burned their way down his face towards the pillow, pooling around Stiles’ ears and neck. Derek froze then, but the head remained in Stiles, splitting him impossibly wide and open. Stiles’ body tried to clench around it, but it couldn’t, disabled by the unyielding flesh of Derek’s cock. He started biting his lips, and the slight pain distracted him from the pain he felt down there a little. The insides of thighs burned, too, unused to the unfamiliar position where they were pressed down by Derek’s body."





	Beauty of our Sin

**Author's Note:**

> ~This story takes place somewhere high up in the mountains of Montenegro, a long, long time ago.  
> ~The ancient custom described in the story is real, meaning that I didn't make it up. It isn't practiced any longer, though  
> ~Inspiration: these lyrics from Hozier - "There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin."

Stiles swept the floor of their hut one more time and put the cots back to their respective places behind the hearth. It was mid morning and there was still so much to do.

He hurried outside, shoveling the garbage into the cartwheel, careful not to overturn it; once it was filled to the brim, he slowly made his path down to the latrine, behind which was a deep composting cesspool. He removed the wooden cover, breathing expertly through his mouth the entire time, and dumped the garbage inside, shaking the cartwheel until everything fell out. He put the lid back on.

Stiles didn’t mind the work. There wasn’t much to do around here other than work. Hard labor quieted his overactive mind, calming him in a way Stiles sensed he needed. Both his body and his mind required constant stimuli, and Stiles had no trouble occupying his body; it was his mind that was left deprived more often than not.

No matter how exhausting his chores were, they were, to Stiles’ constant frustration, much easier than what his father had to do every day. If anything, Stiles wanted to do more and help his father more, but it was John who wouldn’t let him, thinking that his advanced years could bear more than Stiles’ youthfulness.

Stiles was barely sixteen, old and strong enough according to the village law, but not according to his father, who wanted to spare Stiles for at least a few more years.

Once Stiles was finished, he sat in the grass near the short stonewall surrounding their small garden and looked over. There was nothing but slopes of hills to meet his eyes, falling downwards one over the other like running sheep - their hut was at the topmost one. The grass was tall this time of the year, some leaves almost reaching Stiles’ chin; cottony white dandelions and wild flower bushes scattered randomly over the fields, dividing them into patchwork. Further away, there were trees, dark and old, constituting a forest which Stiles was banned from, a consequence of his father never having forgiven Stiles his frequent dangerous explorations which had ended in many a scraped limb and twisted ankles. 

Stiles counted the slopes. He could make out at least eight. He knew that Scott’s hut was behind the third hill to the left, and he couldn’t wait for his father to return from the field. Perhaps, he would let him go see Scott. Stiles was buzzing with anticipation.

They had a small cornfield not too far from the house, and a little garden with potatoes, onions, carrots and such similar vegetables. It was enough for their needs, with a small surplus which they could trade. His father worked the fields and did other heavy work, like preparing the wood for winters; Stiles did all the rest - he cooked, cleaned the house and took care of their goat Molly and the chickens.

Many boys younger than Stiles did hard work in their village, but they were much bigger than Stiles. No matter how much he ate, Stiles remained rakishly thin and small, his skin pale and soft like a child’s. The men in the village were normally very corpulent and tall, hard physical labor and rough terrain turning boys into men as soon as they were twelve. But, the laws of nature and their clan’s genetics seemed to have skipped Stiles, who, although strong and resilient, was skinny and much smaller than the others.

Perhaps that explained John’s unusual protectiveness.

When he saw his father’s figure treading slowly up the path, Stiles ran to him like the wind and took the shovel and pike from his shoulder. He accompanied him to the hut, putting away the tools before they entered.

 

“Father,” Stiles began, between two mouthfuls, once they were sat for their simple dinner. “Can I go to the McCall’s? Can I, please?”

His father chased the last bits of potato and carrot in his soup. He sighed through his nose. “It’s late.”

“There’s still at least two hours of day left,” Stiles pleaded. He had so much energy left.

His father seemed to be considering his words. “Did you feed the chickens? Clean the coop? Get the eggs?”

“I did everything. There were six today. And I milked Molly.”

His father nodded. “Good. All right, then. Take three eggs to Mrs. McCall. And be back before dark,” John said, getting up from the table.

Stiles jumped up, hugging his father quickly in gratitude.

It wasn’t something people normally did around here, the hugging thing - at least that they had ever seen. It was one of his quirks, as Stiles heard John describe it to Melissa, the need to show affection, and John accepted it because the boy had lost his mother so young - and also due to the fact that his father could never stay mad at his son for long.

John also thought that Stiles would grow out of it eventually.

“Thank you, father!” Stiles yelled over his shoulder.

John couldn't help smiling a little as he watched his son dash out the door.

 

Stiles ran, jumping over the little wall and flying down the path, giddy with excitement. Birds flurried from their nests when he passed them, spooked by his ruckus, and dandelion heads burst under his swift feet into a fluffy shower. Stiles felt like he was flying.

It took him a little over half an hour to reach the McCall house running; that way, he could spend an hour there and get back to his house before dark, as per his father’s orders. It was enough; Stiles was happy.

 

Scott lived with his mother alone. His father had died many years ago from fever, like Stiles’ mother, and according to the custom, she remained alone, like Stiles’ father.

Stiles could never understand that, because the village was desperate for population and the living conditions were very harsh – it would make much more sense to join the two households, Stiles thought. But, it wasn’t their call. The council was the one who made such decisions, and they abided by the ancient laws of their ancestors.

Mrs. McCall was one of the few women in the village. Most of them died after several consecutive pregnancies or childbirth complications, or fever, or simply hard life. But Mrs. McCall was a tough little woman, already smaller than her son, and she managed to survive harsh mountain winters and lack of food somehow all on her own.

She thanked Stiles for the eggs, smiling sweetly to him, and Stiles simply adored her for that smile and the kindness in her eyes. She politely asked after John and Stiles’ well-being, and even though she would never hug Stiles - she was a prudent person through and through - the boy felt her motherly affection strongly and clearly, reveling in it with all the neediness of his boyish heart. Stiles was very young when he realized that that particular quality was the reason why he was so drawn to their little family, for Scott was as warm and kindhearted as his mother.

Afterwards, Mrs. McCall allowed the boys to roam the meadows, letting off their teenage steam. They didn’t go far, and they had no desire to do anything in particular – the boys just wanted to talk. They were each other’s sole peer company since they were born and they were both hungry for communication, sorely missing anything that could stimulate their young minds and imagination.

Stiles did have some source of entertainment, like his wooden board and a coal stick where he could write, a skill taught to him by his father; he also had a set of wood figurines and a chess board. That was the total sum of his toys. But Scott didn’t even have that little. When he would come to visit Stiles, his friend would teach him the letters and numbers and how to play chess until he had to leave again.

“If you could choose any hill to live on, which one would you choose?” Stiles asked, nibbling on a leaf of grass, slouched against a tree. Scott sat across from him with bent legs, patiently answering Stiles’ silly inquiries.

“The one closest to you, of course,” Scott replied, grinning widely.

“But the hill closest to us has bad soil, and no water,” Stiles frowned. “You wouldn’t have any food.”

Scott giggled. “It doesn’t matter.” He threw a little rock at his friend. “We could play more, and talk more, and you would bring us food.”

“I would,” Stiles replied seriously.

They rested in silence for a while, but then Stiles remembered the issue that bothered him very much, souring his mood. He spit out the leaf from his mouth, his face turning grim. “The village council is next month.”

Scott picked on the hem of his trousers. He knew what that meant, or could mean, for both of them. “Are you scared?”

Stiles squinted against the setting sun. “A little. I mean, I don’t know. Father told me it could happen. He told me to not be afraid. But, I just don’t want to leave him.”

Scott looked at his friend strangely. “But it is only normal, Stiles. That’s how things are. You have to make new family. Don’t you want it? I hope my mother comes with good news for me.”

Stiles giggled then, teasing his friend. “Oh, I bet you do. Do you think about it often, Scott? About getting married? Do you think about coupling? I bet you do.”

But Scott didn't laugh. He seemed annoyed, and embarrassed.

“Stop it, Stiles!” Scott yelled, blushing, his face turning stern. “Don’t talk like that. You know you can’t talk like that. It’s – it’s not proper. You should know to behave better than that.”

Stiles bit his lips. He flinched inwardly at his friend’s chiding, bowing his head in shame. He thought he could joke like that with Scott. He knew he was odd and different, saying and thinking stupid, sinful thoughts. Scott was right.

Scott’s face remained cold and serious, even though his chiding had stopped. Stiles felt awkward. He feared that he had ruined their day.

Stiles picked at the grass, hugging his knees and resting his chin on them. “Sorry. I don't know what came over me. Sometimes, it's like I don't think. I'm really sorry. Scott.”

Scott looked at his friend's bowed head. Just like his father, Stiles' friend was unable to stay mad at him for long.

“Here,” Scott said, and then Stiles felt a rock fall into his lap. It was a very pretty one, grey with red spots and shiny all around. Scott had found it before and now was giving it to Stiles. “It’s for you. Take it.”

Stiles smiled, holding the rock still warm from Scott’s fingers. “Thanks,” he said, their misunderstanding forgotten, Stiles hoped. He didn’t mean to upset Scott. No one was ever mad at him. Stiles didn’t like it. He decided to be better from then on. He loved Scott dearly, but they were different, Stiles knew that. And because of that, their lives would pan out differently. Stiles felt that his future was going to be just as odd as his abnormal thoughts.

&&&

His father was to return from the village council and Stiles waited for him, nervous and jittery. The council usually met twice a year if nothing out of ordinary happened, where they discussed and settled on everything, from getting wood and coal for the winter, to sending an envoy down the mountain for food, or arranging marriages.

Being chosen as an envoy was an honor because it had to be the strongest villager, the one able to survive the journey. The trip down the mountain lasted three days. The envoy would bring a donkey with him, its back filled with produce to be exchanged for things like salt and yeast; the return up the mountain was much more arduous and longer, of course.

The council itself was also a sort of an exchange market. John took some of their produce, mostly corn flour, in hopes to get some salt and lard for it.

 

With the day dragging slowly, Stiles was bored out of his mind. He knew his father would be out until dark and he wandered about, too nervous to do anything. He grudgingly finished his duties, letting the idleness overwhelm him. He felt lazy and tired, his limbs warm and heavy with the summer sun.

He got back inside, basking in the relative coolness of the hut and sprawled heavily across his cot. His mind whirred, scared and excited at the same time.

What if the council found him a spouse? Stiles tried to imagine a girl and wondered what kind of girl he would like. That was the problem, because he just didn’t know. He tried imagining her eyes and her hair, and thinking if he was ready to be the head of the house. Stiles didn’t think so, but he would never bring shame to his father. He would try to do his best.

He tossed and turned, lost in his thoughts, until they all slowly left his head, leaving it empty and light. His entire body was pressed against the mattress, and Stiles spread his legs a little, starting to feel the familiar fire in his groins. It had to be because he unconsciously rubbed against his bed, he thought, welcoming the distraction with glee.

It was something that he had discovered in the previous months and which, after initial embarrassing shock, entertained him to no end. It brought him pleasure and relief, tickling him from head to toes in sweet burning. His prick would change then, growing, hardening like a corn, and if he pushed his hips back and forth long enough, he would soil his drawers with white wetness - a fact which had left Stiles giggling in awed delight when it had happened for the first time.

He was so dizzy after and couldn’t stand on his legs for a while. He loved that drunken feeling. He usually tried to clean up as soon as he could, but now, since he was alone, he wondered if he could do it once again after a while. So, he remained lying, his head on the side of his pillow, sated and relaxed, looking forward to repeating the act.

&&&

John returned when the night fell, putting a bag of salt and a packet of lard on their table.

“You were gone very long, father,” Stiles said as he put the groceries away.

John sighed. His face looked much worn out.

Stiles felt unease and tension spread through his body. His father’s silence and grim expression didn’t bode well for him. He put a pot on the stove to make him some tea, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling.

“Son, sit down.”

Stiles sat.

His father rested his hands on the table. “You’re a man now, Stiles. It is time for you to fulfill your duties.”

Stiles knew immediately what was going on. He didn’t feel like a man, though. His entire being rebelled against the thought. He was sixteen and he still wanted to live with his father.

“The council has coupled you,” John bit out.

Stiles’ heart jumped in his chest. He tried to calm down, and not only for his own sake - he could tell that his father wasn't taking the news with ease.

“So. Who is she?” he asked immediately, painful curiosity burning him from the inside. Was she young or old? Pretty? Strong? She needed to be strong, Stiles thought, and it would be nice if she was good and pretty. His head was buzzing with thoughts.

It didn’t matter much, though, if she was pretty or not, since women had to cover their faces when they lay with their men. Couples were allowed to touch only where necessary for coupling, in their cot, dressed, with covered faces. Stiles knew that.

His heart hammered against his ribs. New, unfamiliar life lay ahead of him, scary and intriguing in equal measure.

“It’s the Hale boy.”

Stiles gasped.

He did not expect that. It wasn’t that out of ordinary, the council coupling men with men, what with the lack of women in the village, but when his father had taught him about his future duties, he had always spoken about a female.

Stiles’ entire mind froze, because it was a new, unexpected idea, strange and unsettling; the image of a woman he had tried to reach in his daydreams, futilely, suddenly turned into a clear picture of a man.

He relaxed a little, feeling oddly relieved. He felt a little better now. He didn’t know exactly why. A man. Stiles thought that it could be a good thing. They could play together and do other manly things together. It would be more fun with a man, perhaps.  

“Is he… old?” Stiles asked first.

John looked at him strangely. “No… I just told you. Not really. He’s around twenty-four. Twenty-five, I think.”

So he was old, Stiles thought. He had hoped his husband would be a real boy, like him, like his age, so they could be friends. But, what could he do. He couldn't pick a husband to his liking. He had to deal with what he got.

“Couldn’t the council find him a woman?” he asked, his practical mind coming to surface.

John stood up quickly. “Hale himself asked for a boy.”

“You can do that? Ask for what you want?” Stiles’ voice turned shrill with surprise.

“There were- there were some special circumstances,“ John said, rummaging through their wardrobe. “The council found him a wrong woman once… before. She- His family burned in a fire. The council… made a mistake. So.”

Stiles was shocked. The council never made mistakes, let alone admit to them. What was his father saying? Stiles didn’t know how to process all this. And the Hale family… Stiles was horrified. Still, he couldn’t believe they allowed Hale to couple again. One could only do it once in a lifetime.

“How come they let him couple again?” he couldn’t help but ask.

John pulled out a bundle from the wardrobe that Stiles had never seen before. He sat down again.

“As I understand, they never presented as a couple. They were barely together for two weeks… when everything happened. There was never – they never presented.”

But couples always presented on their first night, Stiles thought. That was what his father had taught him. They put out their soiled sheets outside for everyone to see the evidence of their coupling. His father’s next words pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Here are some clothes, new, for you.” John’s eyes were shiny, looking everywhere but his son. “Some shirts and drawers… and the marital cloth.”

Stiles gulped, watching the bundle on the table, frozen by the reality it signified. He didn't say anything.

“You have two more weeks here,” John hastily added. “He’s the envoy this year. He won’t be back before July.”

 

At that, his father left their hut and walked out into the night, hiding his sorrow, leaving his son to his own storm inside his mind.

&&&

It was the two most dreadful weeks in Stiles’ life. They were both miserable, even though John tried to be a stoic father figure and Stiles put on a face of dutiful son. They avoided talking about Stiles leaving at all costs, but Stiles did think about it and he managed to get practical enough and wash all his belongings, twice; he also pried out his husband’s name from his father. It was Derek. Stiles’ mind immediately connected it to the image of the man from his fantasy. Derek. His husband. Stiles was going to do his best so that they liked each other and be good friends. So that they had a good life.

 

One warm morning in late July, while Stiles was cleaning the chicken coop, dirty and so sweaty that his shirt clung to him like a wet sheet, or, in other words, being his most disgusting self, a man appeared seemingly out of nowhere, stopping just outside their yard, in complete silence.

Stiles was startled, and embarrassed about his general state of undress and filthiness.

He hastily grabbed a full carafe, splashed himself messily with cold water and wiped his face with a rag. Was this Derek? Stiles didn’t know, but he suspected it. Who else could it be. 

Stiles squinted at the man, having decided that he was allowed a few seconds just to look, just on the chance that the man was indeed his husband.

He was dark and big; a real man, wide in shoulders and strong. His hair was also dark, and thick, as was his beard. His skin, where Stiles could see it, was rough and tanned with sun. He was easily twice the size of Stiles. He wore his best clothes, obviously, a clean shirt and good trousers, but he still looked a little wild. When Stiles shifted on his feet, he caught the unusually bright color of his eyes.

Stiles shivered. Once he focused on the man’s face, Stiles realized it was unkind and cold. Stiles didn’t like it, at all.

But, he gathered his wits and finished cleaning his hands.

“Good morning,” Stiles greeted politely.

The man only nodded in return.

Stiles swallowed around a lump in his throat. Was this Derek Hale? Was this his husband? Stiles did not like him. Did he talk, at all? If this was Derek Hale, then Stiles was disappointed. He expected someone nice and kind. He expected a smile. He didn’t get it and he had no idea why. Perhaps Derek was as disappointed as Stiles. Perhaps he didn’t like Stiles. He felt his eyes burn, but he blinked the wetness away.

“I’ll-- get my father,” Stiles managed to say, stepping slowly away.

When the man remained silent, Stiles turned around and bolted off into the field, running as fast as his legs could carry him.

 

When John and Stiles returned, they found the man standing in the same spot where Stiles had left him. When he saw John, he showed some first signs of civil behavior and approached him.

“I am Derek Hale, Sir.”

His father offered him his hand, and Derek accepted, shaking it.

“John Stilinski.”

“I am here on behalf of the council, to ask for a Stiles Stilinski.”

Was that it? Stiles couldn’t believe it. Was he to leave with this stranger immediately? Derek refused to have tea, or to stay any longer. He waited outside for Stiles to fetch his bundle, eyes widening in shock when Stiles hugged his father fiercely and refused to let go for a few long moments. John had to pry his son’s fingers away from his shirt, whispering words about visits to his broken face. “Off you go, son. Good luck.”

Stiles whimpered a little, but he did let go then, embarrassed for displaying his weakness, but not finding the strength to resist it at that moment; resigned, he stood beside Derek, and waited for him to lead the way.

 

When Derek moved, Stiles followed him, and didn’t look back.

&&&

Derek walked in long, powerful strides and Stiles almost had to run to keep up with him, feeling like a dog. Not once did Derek look back to see if Stiles was still behind; for all he knew, Stiles could be lying in a ditch somewhere.

Stiles looked angrily at his back, his emotions swinging between anger at Derek and sadness for leaving his home, suffocating him with turmoil. Once they passed the great oak behind the third hill, which was the frontier Stiles had never gone past, Stiles felt his eyes water again. Luckily, Derek never turned, so Stiles bit his lips, allowing himself to shed a few tears behind his hostile back.

It was oppressively hot as they walked, and Stiles could see that Derek’s shirt was completely damp, outlining his robust, muscular body, revealing its form to Stiles’ curious eyes. Stiles stared at it, mesmerized, his head swimming with heat and its harmonious movement. His trousers were stuck to his rear, too, Stiles noticed, and his buttocks flexed with every step. Stiles focused on it like on a hypnotist's spinning wheel.

Stiles wanted to snap out of it. He could ask Derek something. They could talk. That was a great idea.

“I hear you were the envoy this year. How was your trip?” Stiles tried.

But Derek remained silent, not breaking his gate. His shoulders hunched even more, it seemed.

What was the matter with him? Stiles bristled a little, taking offence.

“Hey! Did you not hear me? I asked about your trip to the city,” Stiles repeated more loudly this time, suspecting that Derek could be a little deaf.

At that, Derek came to a sudden halt and Stiles walked right into him, bouncing off and falling on his ass in a flurry of limbs. His teeth clacked painfully and he barely managed not to fall flat on his back by bracing himself on his arms.

He huffed in righteous indignation, but when he looked at Derek, his pale eyes bored into Stiles’ with strange intensity. “You’re wasting your strength by talking. We have two more hours of walk.”

“I can talk and walk at the same time!” Stiles argued hotly. He wasn't an idiot. Was Derek finding him feeble minded? 

When Derek traced his eyes up and down Stiles’ sprawled form in what Stiles thought was sheer disdain, Stiles clenched his fists and swallowed the burn in his throat. “I can, and I will! If you won’t talk, you don’t have to, but you can’t stop me from talking!”

Derek seemed surprised at such outburst.

Seeing Derek's shock, Stiles regretted his words a little. He was worried if he’d pushed the boundaries and displayed disobedience, but that was a part of the problem – Stiles just wasn’t sure. His mother had died a long time ago, and he never had the chance to see other couples interact. He had no idea what he was allowed to say and what not.

That was why he bowed his head and murmured a soft apology, just in case, hoping that he was doing the right thing. Stiles didn't want to mess things up.

Derek offered him his hand. “Come on. Let’s make a short break.”

Stiles took the hand, letting Derek pull him up.

He led him to a nearby tree. “I’m not tired,” Stiles said, sprawling in the shade nevertheless. Derek took a flagon out of his bundle and offered it to Stiles.

“Drink,” he ordered.

Hesitantly, Stiles took it. The water in it was still fresh and cold, and Stiles almost gulped everything down before remembering himself. He really was an idiot.

A few drops of water trailed down his neck and he caught Derek following them until they were soaked up by his shirt.

Stiles blushed, and hid his face by turning it away from Derek, burying his nose in his shoulder.

“It was challenging,” Stiles heard Derek say.

“What?” he turned his head in question.

Derek brought the flagon to his lips. “The trip. It was challenging.”

His hand holding the flagon was wide and wiry, with sharp, bony knuckles. Stiles moved his eyes to Derek’s throat, following his Adam’s apple as it bobbed up and down with every swallow. The drinking left Derek’s lips red and shiny.

Something fluttered inside Stiles’ stomach.

They sat quietly for a while.

“Your skin is very pale,” Derek said, out of nowhere.

Stiles found himself blushing furiously at Derek’s words, self-conscious and insecure. Derek probably thought he was a weakling. Once again, he cast his eyes down towards the ground.

He honestly doubted at this point he could survive this day, let alone his whole life with this man. There was something about Derek which made Stiles very uncomfortable.

Once again, Derek’s outstretched arm entered Stiles’ vision. “Let’s go.”

This time, Stiles refused to accept it. He scrambled to his feet, refusing to talk or look at Derek for the entirety of their journey. He just couldn’t. Not that Derek talked or asked him anything.

If anything, Stiles was certain he was going to die of boredom at his new home.

&&&

Derek’s hut was new. It was only slightly bigger than Stiles’ childhood home, and the roof was higher, giving the illusion of much larger space than it actually was. The yard was well maintained and clean, and Stiles wondered how Derek managed doing everything all by himself. Everything seemed in perfect order until Stiles’ eyes caught sight of a huge pile of charred stone, black and sooty, stacked near the wall fence.

Without thinking, Stiles outstretched his arm and pointed at the pile with his bony finger. “What’s that?”

He saw Derek stiffen instantly in the periphery of his vision and a low growl came from his chest.

Stiles blanched at the hostility.

“Don’t push your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Derek said, menacingly quiet.

Stiles numbed all over, a chill spreading throughout his limbs. He remembered the fire the very instant, but he couldn’t take his words back now. He wished he could have. He felt like a biggest fool for not thinking, for hurting Derek’s feelings, albeit inadvertently. He wanted to apologize.

But Derek’s words to him also hurt. Did Stiles not belong here? Why did Derek bring him then? Derek didn’t act like a man who wanted a spouse.

Stiles followed him inside the hut, confused and helpless. But he was going to fix things, he tried cheering himself up. Stiles was going to try harder. 

Derek’s back was still rigid and he avoided looking at Stiles.

Inside, it was even sparser than Stiles’ home where used to live with his father, lacking details and various knickknacks. Everything was probably lost in the fire. What little furniture there was was new, still smelling of fresh wood and lacking the pattern of time.

Stiles’ eye caught two new cots, with fresh straw mattresses and two new pillows on them. He was relieved to no end seeing that, because that meant Derek and he were not going to share the same bed. He couldn’t even imagine doing it with this stranger. He still refused to think about their coupling. The pot above the hearth was also new. A little table with two chairs stood under the window. The hut felt unlived in.

 

“This is it,” Derek spoke finally, spreading his arms a little. His shoulders were hunched. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles didn’t know what Derek was apologizing for. Then, he remembered that Derek had never been to his old home, had never seen how truly humble Stiles was and that he probably thought the state of his abode was disappointing to Stiles.

It melted his heart a little. Derek seemed to be as uncomfortable as Stiles, and even though Stiles couldn't understand why that would be, since Derek had asked for a husband and everything, he could see it clearly in Derek's stiff frame, in his averting eyes, in his scarce words. It made Stiles want to reach out to him.

 

Stiles offered Derek a tentative smile, deciding that it was time he started being nice. “I like it, Mr. Hale.” He tried looking at Derek, capturing his eyes, but to no avail. He wanted to show him that he wasn’t disappointed, that Derek didn’t have to worry about Stiles. “It’s really nice.”

When Derek finally looked at Stiles’ smiling face, his face was shocked as if Stiles had sprouted a second head. But Stiles refused to let his smile drop.

Clearly nervous, Derek sat at the table, crossing his arms and staring outside the window.

Stiles stood in silence, wondering if the awkwardness between them would ever go away. He approached the table and gently put his hand over Derek’s forearm. He thought that Derek had to be exhausted because he had walked double the length than Stiles.

“Would you like me to make some tea?” Stiles offered.

Instead of being glad, what Stiles had honestly expected, Derek flinched visibly, jerking his arm from under Stiles’ hand. “Yes. Of course. You must be parched. I’m sorry. Let’s have tea.”

Stiles frowned in confusion. Did Derek think Stiles had asked to make tea because he had wanted some for himself? Because, even thought he could have had some warm, aromatic liquid himself, Stiles had truly wanted to do right by Derek.

Stiles' hand burned with rejection.

Derek and he seemed not to be able to understand each other, even more so when they spoke. Stiles better not spoke then. 

So Stiles remained quiet, aggravated. He quickly busied himself, finding his way around the stove with ease, starting a fire and putting the pot on. At least, they had a wide selection of tea herbs on their mountain, wonderfully aromatic and potent, and soon enough beautiful smells filled the little hut.

He felt Derek’s eyes on him, observing, following.

Stiles put their mugs on the table and sat down.

Derek clasped his hands around the mug and looked at Stiles, only to avert his eyes after a few moments. He cleared his throat a few times, too.

“There is a garden behind the house, with vegetables,” Derek started. “And a field with wheat and corn. There is a wood workshop by the well. I make furniture there. There are no – there aren’t any animals. Yet.”

Stiles wondered if he had had them before.

That was unfortunate. Animals were hard to get. Stiles worried what they would eat since they wouldn’t have any milk or eggs or meat. But, he still smiled at Derek, holding his mug with both his hands. Derek seemed healthy and strong. Surely he ate well. Stiles needed less than Derek, clearly.

Derek continued. “You are to cook, what you can and what I bring to you. Wash our clothes. You are also to work in the garden. I’ll farm the field, hunt and work at the workshop.”

Stiles had never met a hunter before. His father never hunted. They only ate chicken meat when they could, which was a few times a year. Stiles licked his lips, thinking about fresh game.

Derek’s voice jerked him from his reverie. “If… if that’s all right with you.”

“It’s the same I did back home. It’s all right,” Stiles agreed.

He was pleasantly surprised that Derek had even asked. It was part of his duties anyway, as Stiles understood and was told by his father many times. Newly softened by Derek's gentle concern, Stiles felt a fresh wave of resolve to make things right between them wash over him once more. There was this strange desire inside him to endear himself to Derek.

“Derek,“ Stiles spoke up once again, addressing his husband by his first name, without permission. He decided to be honest and open. “I want to be good… for you.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “All right,” Derek said after a few awkward moments of silence.

“I mean,” Stiles continued, struggling for words. He really wanted to explain to Derek that he wanted them to work. “I know people don’t talk about such things, but I want you to be satisfied with me, and-- to like me. And I’ll like you, if you are nice to me. And I will be nice to you.”

Derek’s brow frowned and he started shaking his head vigorously, looking positively mortified. “You mustn’t speak like that, boy. You mustn’t.” 

Right.

All color drained Slowly from Stiles’ face. He remembered the talk he had had with Scott; he remembered Scott’s almost exact same words to Stiles.

Something squeezed inside Stiles’ chest and he felt hot, burning shame wash over him, whether from feeling of rejection, or from humiliation, he didn't know. He should not talk like that, most definitely.

“I’m sorry. I’ll never say that again,” Stiles said in monotone. Indignation and submission fought inside his mind. But, it was better to apologize than argue, Stiles figured. Derek clearly was different from Stiles. Stiles would have to be smarter than to thrust his silly emotions at Derek.

Derek stood up, tall and strict. “That’s good.” He looked around himself. “Well. That’s it, then. I’m off to work. I’ll see you later.”

Stiles shut his eyes, and fought to regain control over his swirling mind.

&&&

When Derek left, Stiles tried to compose. He reminded himself that Derek was a stranger and that Stiles didn’t know him at all. What was he doing, talking like that, liking Derek on their very first day, offering to like him back like a fool? Derek could be a bad man. Derek didn’t care for Stiles, and Stiles shouldn’t care for him.

He was alone for the first time in his new house. Derek’s and his, to be more precise. He stood up and puttered around, acquainting himself with the surroundings, but it took a short amount of time. There was not much to look at on the inside. Stiles placed his bundle next to one of the cots and went outside.

He checked the garden first, and picked some cabbage he found there, some onions and carrots, and went back inside to make dinner. When he chopped the vegetables and left them on the stove to simmer, he went to see the workshop. It was simple and it smelled really nice. Stiles thought, if Derek knew his way around a chisel and a mallet, they could perhaps exchange some of the things he made for a goat or a sheep, maybe some chickens, too.

Stiles hurried with the food since it was getting dark and he knew Derek wouldn’t be away for much longer.

 

A while later, Derek came back.

Stiles watched him from the window where he was waiting, nervous and jittery, expecting him just to wash himself perfunctorily.

Instead, the man stood next to the well and after taking off his shirt, he shook off his trousers and drawers at the same time, stepping away buck naked, revealing himself completely to Stiles’ unblinking eyes.

The world stopped turning.

Stiles couldn’t look away. Derek’s body stretched before him, real and raw, and it was so different from Stiles’ as if they didn’t even belong to the same species. Slabs of defined, bulging muscle and dark hair stood where Stiles had lean flesh and smooth, rosy pink skin.

The man poured carafe after carafe of chill water over his body, splashing it everywhere, over his head, shoulders and chest. His skin was pebbled with gooseflesh and water ran down him like a waterfall.

Stiles was mesmerized. He’d never seen a naked man before. He’d never seen anyone naked before, actually.

Derek was turned away from him, and while his skin shone in the muffled light of the sunset, Stiles couldn’t help thinking that he was beautiful.

For a second there, when he turned to his side, Stiles caught a glimpse of his cock, hanging heavily between his thighs, and that finally made Stiles look away, flustered and red as a tomato.

 

They ate together in silence for a while, with Stiles stealing glimpses of Derek’s wet hair and trembling hands. The man had to be exhausted, but he still shoveled food into his mouth like he was starving.

“This,” Derek pointed his spoon at the food. “This is really good.”

Stiles squirmed in his seat, embarrassed by the compliment.

“It’s just cabbage.”

Derek looked at him briefly. “It’s still good.”

“I… I put some rosemary and dill in it,” Stiles said.

Derek wiped himself with a cloth when he finished. “Did you find everything you needed today?”

They were actually looking at each other openly for the first time. Stiles fought not to break the eye contact. He knew what was coming. He was nervous. “Yes.”

Derek looked away first. “Good. You can wash at the well, there’s soap there.”

Stiles’ stomach dropped.

As bedtime approached, Stiles trembled with apprehension. He expected Derek to bed him; he knew the custom. What he didn’t know, though, from his father’s few chopped sentences or his own fantasies, how it was going to feel, or how it would happen. Stiles loved it when he humped his pillow. He hoped that he would love it when Derek humped him, too. He knew that Derek was going to put his cock inside him and there weren't that many holes on Stiles' body to choose from - Stiles had a pretty clear idea where it was going to go. He clenched and unclenched down there, testing, imagining, and falling short every time. He prayed that Derek knew what he was doing. But, mostly, Stiles prayed that it was going to be a beautiful experience that was going to unite them for life.

&&&

While Derek was putting out the fire and the candles, Stiles went outside to wash himself. He used the lard soap and a cloth he found on the trey next to the well. He shivered in the chilly air. The moonlight was bright that night in the cloudless sky, but Derek left one candle burning for Stiles in the house. It was a quiet night, and Stiles looked at the lonely flicker through the hut’s window, a tiny spot in the surrounding vast darkness of the mountain. He felt like that light.

With heavy steps, he hurried back inside.

Derek was lying in his cot, with his arm thrown over his eyes, seemingly asleep, and Stiles quickly changed into his nightgown and crawled between the sheets of his own cot.

The bed was unfamiliar and Stiles felt betrayed by its unlikeness to his childhood cot.

He covered himself to the chin. He inhaled deeply a few times, trying to calm down.

And then, with a trembling hand, he reached and pulled out his marital cloth from his bundle, a simple white linen square, and covered his face for the first out of many, as he thought, times in his life.

 

For a while, nothing happened. And just as Stiles started to think nothing really would, he heard Derek get up.

 

Stiles held his breath.

 

Derek sat next to him on the cot, and the dip he made pushed Stiles a little from the ramrod stiffness in which his body was locked; he felt Derek lift the sheets next to his legs and put his hand on Stiles’ ankle.

 

The simple touch alarmed him. Stiles waited for his next move with baited breath. He held his eyes wide open, shadows playing through the cloth, but when he felt Derek push his covers away and his nightgown up to his waist, Stiles shut his eyes firmly, tense with anticipation.

 

He was grateful for the privacy his linen shield gave him at that moment, cold air biting across his revealed flesh.

He knew that Derek was watching him, and he wondered what he thought and how he felt; if he fancied Stiles’ stomach and legs, and Stiles’ soft cock lying limply on his thigh.

Derek's hand felt warm on his skin and Stiles hoped he would touch him more, that Derek’s hand would caress more than his ankle and perhaps go up his leg; but, it didn’t.

Stiles was sorely disappointed, surrounded by the silence and the cold.

He lay stiffly on his spot, listening to the silence surrounding him, thinking that he foolishly hoped for some kind words at least, if he couldn’t get kind touch. He thought that maybe Derek didn’t know how things were done, just like Stiles didn’t, and that this couldn’t possibly be the right way.

Was Stiles stupid for thinking that this should feel nice?

 

Derek put Stiles’ legs up, bending them in the knees and exposing his most intimate parts to the darkness of the room.

Stiles almost started to panic. He breathed heavily under the cover, his hot breath fanning across his face, making his skin damp and warm, suffocating him.

Derek’s hand barely touched him, cold and greasy from something, going clumsily behind Stiles’ balls and brushing against his tight virginal hole. It clenched immediately at the faint touch, closing impenetrably, or at least Stiles thought so – but then Derek forced one of his fingers inside, all the way to the knuckle, and Stiles burned with shame and betrayal of his own body.

It hurt. Stiles’ eyes watered. His breaths were rapid and shallow, loud in his little white enclosure.

Derek was completely silent. He kept his finger there, moving it a little where it was stuck deep inside Stiles’ body, which clamped around the intruding part as if it wanted to prevent it from moving. The grease eased the way a little, but not enough - it still burned.

For a second Stiles thought he could feel tiny wisps of pleasure, and that he could get used to the burn after his invaded hole relaxed a little, but Derek, when his finger slipped outside, pressed two of his digits together back in and Stiles whimpered, clutching the sheets with his hands and locking his legs in instinctual defense.

When Stiles' legs clamped around his hand, Derek stopped, his hand ceasing every motion, trapped; Stiles hoped he realized he was hurting Stiles, and that he would just stop entirely, stop with everything and go back to his cot.

But, he just put his other hand on Stiles’ knee, pushing his legs firmly apart.

Stiles’ hope crumbled, leaving him miserable and aching, disappointed and scared, and hot tears dropped freely down his cheeks now.

 

Derek climbed between his legs, heavy and clumsy, pressing Stiles’ knees firmly into the mattress, keeping Stiles’ legs wide apart.

 _This is it_ , Stiles panicked, _I’m going to die here and my father will be alone_.

He felt Derek’s fingers again, pushing and prodding, and Stiles tried not to clench around them because it hurt him more when he did that. But, he couldn’t control his body.

Derek loomed over Stiles’ face, a dark amorphous mass Stiles couldn’t see even if he wanted to through the blurring wall of tears and his linen shield. He felt Derek put his arms next to Stiles’ shoulders, careful not to touch him anywhere other than where his dick blindly poked between Stiles’ legs. It bumped a few times against Stiles’ balls, against his perineum, wet and stiff, but then the head caught against Stiles’ hole, still tightly closed despite Derek’s fingers before, and then Derek shoved firmly inside.

Stiles screamed; his broken voice even louder in the dark silence of the room, and fresh tears burned their way down his face towards the pillow, pooling around Stiles’ ears and neck.

Derek seemed to be frozen in spot after his scream, but that didn't change things much for Stiles - the head remained inside him, splitting him impossibly wide and open. Stiles’ body tried to clench around it, but it couldn’t, disabled by the unyielding flesh of Derek’s cock.

He started biting his lips, and the slight pain it caused distracted him from the pain he felt down there a little. The insides of thighs burned, too, unused to the unfamiliar position where they were pressed down by Derek’s body.

Derek’s face was close to him, and Stiles could feel his hot breath gusting right over his lips, so he turned away from it, to the side. Derek chose that moment to push further in, dragging, burning, until he breached Stiles completely and irrevocably.

Stiles could feel him in his throat, he thought, filling him up to bursting, and as his heart drummed in ferocious rhythm, so did Derek’s hips.

The motion jostled Stiles upwards, pushing Stiles’ head against Derek’s armpit, its musky warmth reaching Stiles’ nose even through the cover. Stiles focused on the scent, and as Derek pounded into him unrelentingly, it anchored him, comforting in this madness.

It wasn’t until Derek’s maybe twentieth thrust that Stiles realized the pain was almost completely gone.

But Stiles didn't care. If this was coupling, Stiles hated it. And yes, Stiles counted. With his nose under Derek’s armpit, comforted and calmed by the scent, he counted his way to the end of this agony. He couldn’t wait for it to be over. He prayed for it to be soon.

But Derek’s thrusts were slow and measured in a way that Stiles thought would never bring him to completion. Stiles was in the middle of considering possible ways in which he could speed things up, when he felt Derek’s mouth press against his covered ear.

Stiles couldn’t properly understand the words at first, for he was positive Derek was saying something, only he couldn’t distinguish what. He focused on the sound of Derek’s voice then, managing to decipher softly murmured stream. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Stiles wasn’t sure if Derek was apologizing for the entire thing, or for the fact that the last few thrusts of his hips were particularly strong, with Derek remaining inside Stiles when his cock was all the way in for a few confusing moments.

Then, it was over. As soon as Stiles felt his hot release, Derek got up immediately, coldness and emptiness settling over Stiles like a shroud. He was relieved that it was over, but immensely sad about the way it happened.

“Get up,” Stiles heard Derek’s voice.

Stiles scrambled to his feet, the cloth falling from his face on the stone floor, looking dazedly around, until he lost his balance and almost fell to the ground. His legs felt weak and he was dizzy.

Derek’s hand shot towards him like a lightening bolt, roughly grabbing Stiles’ arm and keeping him upright.

Stiles jerked his arm away immediately and Derek let him go, moving towards the cot and stripping the soiled sheet from it.

Stiles remembered the custom then, that the evidence of their coupling had to be displayed outside for everyone to see, the council especially.

He blushed fiercely, watching Derek as he stepped outside into the night and hung the dirty sheet on a line near the well.

When Derek returned, Stiles stood where he had left him.

 

With abrupt, robotic movements, Derek put a new sheet on Stiles’ cot and then he went back to his own, turning his back to the room and Stiles’ shaking and shivering form standing in his thin nightgown in the middle of it.

&&&

The next day, Stiles felt horrible.

He was exhausted from the lack of sleep, and he was very sore. He had checked his body the night before, quietly touching himself in the privacy of the latrine, washing the grease and dirt and who knew what with gentle and careful movements. Stiles had expected to see blood, but there hadn’t been any. He couldn’t understand how, since it felt like he had been split in half. He had washed himself with warm water just in case, and rubbed some herb salve down there to alleviate the burn.

But above all the soreness and general misery, Stiles was furious.

When they got up, Derek wouldn’t talk to him or look him in the eye, and that was what annoyed Stiles the most. What did he have to be upset about? He was the one who hurt Stiles. Stiles understood that they had to couple, but did it have to be like that? Derek was a dunce of epic proportions, Stiles thought. Stiles was maybe too young and naive, but Derek should have known better. He should have been smarter, and Stiles was so mad at him because he clearly wasn't.

The more he thought about it, the more upset Stiles got. He stirred the porridge he was making for breakfast angrily, huffing in annoyance and looking back at Derek every once and again.

Derek was sitting still as stone at the table, waiting for his breakfast and staring outside.

“What are you upset about?”, Stiles asked, unable to resist anymore. “Was not everything to your liking? Did I not perform my duties?”

The expression on Derek’s face was pure shock when he finally decided to look at Stiles. His pale eyes were impossibly wide on his stunned face, and he started shaking his head quickly. “No. No.”

Stiles opened his mouth agape, stupefied and hurt. “No? Well then. You are a fool. You can return me to my father, you know. I want that. I am clearly deficient. My ass hurts! And my legs. I hate you! I don't want anything to do with you, ever again!” Stiles shouted, flailing his arms, bits of porridge scattering around from the wooden spoon.

Derek stood up abruptly, shoving the entire table with his thighs. The chair fell on the floor, clattering.

Stiles watched him as he rushed outside, walking towards the shed to get his farming tools.

“Wait!” Stiles yelled again. “You can’t go yet! What about your breakfast? You’ve got to eat!”

But Derek didn’t stop. He almost dislocated the door of the shed in his haste to get away, various tools falling from their shelves and hooks.

Stiles watched his retreating back, clenching his fists in fury.

 

He went back inside to take the porridge off the fire. It was ruined, and Stiles wasn’t hungry now anyway. He was so upset and confused, unable to tell what was right.

He had never fought with anyone in his life before and he had no idea how to fix things between Derek and him, whether he wanted that at all. He didn’t know if Derek liked him or hated him, he didn’t know if what happened last night was normal or not, and worst of all, he didn’t know what to do or how to go from here.

His head started to hurt and Stiles just couldn’t think about anything anymore.

 

Stiles hated what had happened the night before. If that was coupling, Stiles never wanted to do it again. Stupid customs, stupid Derek, and stupid Stiles for his silly expectations.

 

In the light of the day, his emotional confusion and hurt gave way to anger, and Stiles just wanted to scream in frustration. He went to the garden, looking how to busy himself. He would make lunch. That was what he was going to do.

 

The weather was scorching hot, burning his head and bare arms. It was then that he saw Derek’s flagon, empty and forgotten on the trey next to the well.

Stiles’ heart jumped. “Fool! I married a fool,” he mumbled in annoyance. “He’s going to pass out from heat,” Stiles continued talking with himself.

“I should let him die. And he deserved it, too! I hope his dick falls off… I hope he catches fever and dies. I could return to my father then. Stupid, stupid Derek…”

He stood there, looking at the flagon and wishing he didn’t have any conscience. He couldn’t wait until lunchtime; he had to bring Derek water immediately. Plus, there was a big chance Derek wouldn’t even show up for lunch. From what Stiles could discern, he seemed exceedingly stubborn.

Stiles went back inside, remembering that Derek had skipped breakfast, and quickly made two pieces of fried bread. He pasted them with a thin layer of lard and sprinkled some salt and dried pepper over them. He also brought two big tomatoes. He filled a carafe with fresh cold tea. He also filled up Derek’s flagon with water and then he headed toward the field, fuming.

 

But then, he found Derek there in the middle of the field, blind with sweat and exhaustion, hunched over the crops. His back was naked, blistery and burned, because he had obviously taken off his shirt at one point and wrapped it around his head, as some sort of protection from the sun.

Stiles’ heart clenched in empathy.

When Stiles approached him, Derek blinked and didn’t react at first, continuing with his drudging movements.

“Mr. Hale… let’s sit under there,” Stiles pointed at the huge chestnut tree throwing a deep shade near the field.

Derek unwrapped the shirt from his head and used it to clean his face, putting it back on in modesty.

He squinted at Stiles, nodding slowly. Stiles pushed the carafe under his nose, and Derek grabbed at it, gulping the liquid desperately.

Stiles placed the food in Derek’s lap once they sat. Derek looked at the larded bread. “You’re not deficient.”

Stiles frowned in confusion. “What?”

But Derek said it again. “I don’t think you’re deficient.”

“But – but this morning, when I asked you if everything was to your liking, you said no,” Stiles argued. “When I asked you if I performed my duties, you said no.”

Derek shook his head, in almost exact replica of that morning. “No. You didn’t understand. I meant yes, you performed your duties. And that you’re not deficient. I meant… that.”

“But, you wouldn’t talk to me! You wouldn’t look at me! You – you wouldn’t eat my porridge!” Stiles shouted in frustration.

Derek flinched at that, looking away from Stiles and frowning.

“I was sorry,” Derek said quietly. “I am sorry.”

Stiles leaned a little where he sat cross-legged across from Derek. “What are you exactly sorry for?”

“I was horrible to you,” Derek clutched the grass surrounding his legs. It was beautiful, its leaves shiny and bright green. “I hurt you.”

Stiles didn’t speak. ‘It was horrible,’ Stiles thought.

He wanted to put his hand over Derek’s, but that would really be out of line. Why had all those rules been created? Why couldn’t they touch outside the coupling? Deep inside, instinctually, Stiles felt things would be different if Derek and he could really talk. And touch each other, look at each other.

But, even Stiles’ words were too intimate and personal; almost sinful. One did not indulge in such weakness in their clan – it was considered a sin. There was no one around them now. They were all alone, surrounded only by nature and earth.

“I’m sorry, too. Perhaps,” Stiles tried, speaking softly. “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“But it has to,” Derek replied. “You don’t understand. You’re young. I would never do to you what I did last night if I didn’t have to. The council demanded. I wanted to wait…”

Stiles frowned in confusion. “What? Isn’t it law to couple on the first night?”

Derek’s gaze was blurred. “Law isn’t always… good.” His words were barely audible.

Stiles nibbled on his lips. “Derek… I didn’t mind that. I – I wanted to couple. I really did. It’s just… not like that.”

It was Derek’s turn to be confused. “What do you mean?”

Stiles smiled at him. “Does it have to be that way? That we don’t touch? Don’t hold each other? I feel like it would be much better if we hugged…” Stiles looked away dreamily.

He liked Derek’s body, and he could just imagine how it would feel if Derek hugged him. It would feel amazing, he was sure.

Derek’s eyes went wide as saucers.

Stiles smiled again, and then placed his hand gently over Derek’s thigh.

Derek jumped as if he was burned.

The food fell on the grass, and Stiles jerked back in surprise.

“What are you doing?” Derek gritted through his teeth.

“No – nothing, I just…,” Stiles stuttered.

“You just what? You can’t do that,” Derek said with resolve. “You can’t do that, and you can’t speak like that. Didn’t your father teach you?”

Stiles stared at him, astonished. Anger bubbled inside him, boiling under Stiles’ skin.

“You’re a fool,” he said, getting up, shaking the grass off of him. “A damned fool! Don’t you mention my father again! And don’t you dare lie on me once again, you hear! I’ll bite your dick off! I’ll speak however I like!” Stiles spluttered, knowing full well that he couldn’t deny Derek his rights even if he wanted to.

“Eat your food, fool, that I brought to you. And drink water, too. I hope you choke on it!” he threw over his shoulder angrily, storming off across the field.

It was all over. Derek would probably chase him away.

&&&

Derek didn’t chase him off. He ignored Stiles, but not in annoyance. Stiles wasn’t sure, but if he had to guess, he would say that Derek was still sorry. There was something apologetic in his ‘woe is me’ posturing.

Stiles washed himself thoroughly that night and did something he had never done before: he went to their latrine for privacy, taking a piece of lard with him. Inside, he lifted his leg on the wooden seat and reached behind his balls. He felt his hole and, blushing fiercely, he greased his own fingers and started rubbing himself there. He was still sore a little, but he managed to relax. He breathed deeply and realized how he had made a terrible mistake the previous night by being tense and rigid; because as soon as he relaxed his muscles, his finger slid in without any resistance. He continued breathing deeply and flexing around his finger; he discovered the more he rubbed and stretched his hole, the more soft and pliant it became.

He went back to the house, as ready as he could be.

He saw Derek’s prone body, stiff as a corpse, and he knew Derek was as anxious as he.

Again, Stiles changed into his gown and lay down, putting the cloth over his face, resigned.

But, Derek never came that night. Stiles waited until he got drowsy from his own hot breath circling under the cover, and promptly fell asleep, not knowing whether to be relieved or mad.

 

Derek didn’t come the next night either, or the next, or the next. It annoyed Stiles to no end, since it confused him and offended him. He really wanted to work on it and he even planned different tricks in order to convince Derek to try making things better, but it was all in vain now.

Derek didn’t want to lie with him. It was fine, Stiles thought eventually, because Stiles didn’t want to lie with Derek, too. He didn’t.

 

Stiles’ frustration seeped into their daily communication as well. His mood was sour, and he was often rude and sassy to Derek; in return, Derek endured Stiles’ remarks with stoicism and submission.

He suffered through every Stiles’ whim, quiet and meek. And Stiles found great pleasure in taunting him, seeing if he would snap at him. Derek never did.

“Derek! We need animals, Derek,” Stiles demanded, even though only yesterday Derek had brought three quails and a dozen of quail eggs from his hunt.

But Derek would rather die than point that little fact out to indignant Stiles.

“I need milk, and eggs, and meat. If I eat cabbage once more, I’ll go mad,” Stiles told him one day as he was hanging their washed clothes on the line.

Derek continued preparing his tools for farming. Stiles almost didn’t expect him to answer, but he did.

“Maybe, after the harvest… if I get enough barrels of corn out of it. I could exchange some for a few chickens.”

Stiles shook out Derek’s wet trousers through the air. “Who said anything about corn! You make furniture. Make something. Chairs, a table, a chicken coop. A cradle, a cot, anything. You can do that, right? You could perhaps get even a baby goat, or a lamb. Do I have to tell you everything?”

Derek paused. “I don’t have time for that now.”

“Of course you have. You can do it after you come back from the field. In the evenings. You’re free to do anything you want in the evenings, so why not that. It’s bad to lie idly in your bed, I’ll say. I want animals,” Stiles continued his ministrations, and he would keep talking, too, if a faulty peg didn’t snap him across his finger.

“Ow!” he yelped, putting the hurt finger in his mouth and sucking.

Derek dropped the tools and went to him. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles bit out immediately, but he let Derek take his hand in his and look.

It was the first time they touched in weeks, and Stiles observed Derek’s face in fascination while he tossed Stiles’ hand this way and that just for a little red spot where the peg had nicked him.

 

That evening, Derek really went to the work shed after dinner, bringing a little candle with him. He stayed there for a couple of hours, whittling and hammering, while Stiles did his usual evening chores.

 

A few days later, Stiles, piqued by his insatiable curiosity, came to see what he was doing.

The shed was filled by soft candlelight, and little specks of sawdust hovered high in the air, suspended. Derek was filing a large, oak board in powerful, repetitive motions, completely covered in fine yellowish dust.

Stiles leaned against the doorframe, biting on a hangnail. “What are you making?”

Derek looked at him briefly. “I’m making a bench.”

“A bench?” Stiles was surprised. It wasn’t something he had suggested to Derek.

“For the council. It’s a gift. I reckon, if people see it there and the word gets around, I’ll have more commissions.”

Stiles smiled at that. “What a great idea,” he said and approached the working desk.

“Stiles…” Derek chided, slowing his movements a little. “A splinter can hurt you here. Go to the hut.”

But Stiles ignored him.

“I just wanted to tell you that you’re not a fool. Not even a tiniest bit,” Stiles teased, and even in the weak light, he could see Derek blushing.

Derek turned his head to the side, but not before Stiles caught his lips curling a little into a hint of a smile.

“Ah, is that a smile? Are you smiling, Derek Hale?” Stiles boldly brought his hand up and tried to turn Derek’s head, holding him by the chin.

Derek shook him off, gently.

“Don’t be scared,” Stiles giggled. “Come on, let me see it. I think you’re pretty when you smile,” Stiles said, trying to ambush him from the other side.

But Derek turned again, avoiding Stiles at all cost. Stiles could see that even his neck was red with embarrassment.

“Stiles, stop,” he pleaded weakly.

“No, I won’t. Why would I? Make me,” Stiles joked, knowing full well that Derek wouldn’t do anything. “If you don’t look at me, I’ll do something even worse!”

When Derek refused to budge, Stiles lifted himself on his toes since Derek was taller and pecked Derek’s cheek with his lips.

“Stiles!” Derek groaned, but Stiles was already bolting towards the door, chuckling in amusement.

“Uh-oh, Derek! What are you going to do now? The council might punish you! The lightning bolt might strike you! Your life is over,” Stiles teased him mercilessly, escaping the shed just in case.

 

That was the general tone in which Stiles treated Derek during their short married life. During the meals, Stiles would push Derek’s feet with his, stomping on them when Derek tried to move. When that bored him, he would make little balls from breadcrumbs and flicked them in Derek’s face.

He would ask Derek to make him this or that from wood, and despite frowning at Stiles, Derek would usually come to him a few days later and delivered whatever Stiles had asked for by putting it shyly in front of him. That was how Stiles got a chessboard one day, and a set of figurines a week later. Then, it was a writing board, glazed with tar. It was much better than the one Stiles had back home.

“Derek, sit here,” Stiles rounded on him one cold evening. “I’m going to teach you how to write.”

“Why?” Derek asked from where he was bent over the fire, stroking it into a full flame.

“What do you mean why? Because everyone should know their letters, and because I’m bored,” Stiles argued.

Derek just shook his head.

“Derek, if you don’t sit here, I’ll kiss you again,” Stiles threatened. And it worked, too, because Derek caved, albeit begrudgingly, and they had writing lessons every evening from then on.

Derek was a good student, quiet and smart, and every time he pleased Stiles, Stiles would indeed kiss him on the cheek, but this time as a reward, not punishment. Derek got used to it eventually, managing not to shy away from Stiles and going so far as to lean a little towards Stiles, offering his cheek in quiet complaisance.

 

When Derek came one day from the council with a goat by his side and six chickens in a crate, Stiles was ecstatic. He flailed and cried a little, telling Derek the goat reminded him of Molly, his father’s goat, which he sorely missed, and Derek stood awkwardly while Stiles hugged the goat and fawned over the chickens.

“I’ll make you a cake, Derek, you’ll see! Oh, what are we going to call her, Derek? She’s so tiny! How about Rosy? Eh, do you like it, little girl?” Stiles asked the goat, stroking gently her white fur.

Stiles was happy.

&&&

Autumn was short and temperamental on the mountain, and Derek had to prepare firewood for the winter.

He went to the forest every day, cutting and chopping, and Stiles would come in the afternoon to help him bring the logs over on their wheelbarrow. It was hard work.

On one such occasion, while they were resting under the canopy of a large oak, Stiles rested his head on Derek’s lap, and Derek did his best to remain calm, looking around in panic.

Stiles laughed at him from his position, taunting him with salacious comments, reveling in the power he had over Derek, who wanted, but didn’t dare, to shove him off.

Crazy with delight, Stiles turned his head at one point, sniffing and biting playfully at Derek’s crotch.

“Stiles!” Derek pleaded. “Please…”

“Please what? You want me to stop? You want me to continue?”

“Not – not here,” Derek whispered.

“You’re hard,” Stiles stated clinically.

Derek turned his head away.

Stiles sat up. “I’m sorry.”

He leaned over Derek and kissed him on the cheek. “Am I forgiven?”

Derek just nodded his head, at peace with the fact that he had an extraordinary husband.

&&&

Winter came, cruel and blindingly white.

“Derek. Derek!” Stiles whispered urgently, shaking Derek’s shoulder one night.

Derek groaned, woken up from deep sleep, turning over. He blinked away sleep from his eyes, looking at Stiles, who shivered in his thin nightgown next to his bed. It was a cold December night.

“What?”

“There’s storm outside. It’s… There’s thunder. Can’t you hear it? Listen!” Stiles’ teeth clattered, and he looked spooked.

“Stiles… go to sleep,” Derek urged, rubbing his face with his hands.

But before he knew it, Stiles pulled his covers and slipped inside Derek’s cot next to him.

They both lay stiffly, staring at each other in astonished silence, both shocked with the boldness of Stiles’ move.

“I can’t,” Stiles whispered. “It’s too scary. Please, don’t chase me away.”

Derek sighed, and flopped on his back, looking blindly into the darkness.

But then Stiles took his arm and lifted it, moving closer and burying his nose in Derek’s armpit.

The familiar scent washed over Stiles, and he cuddled even closer, placing his own hand on Derek’s chest.

Outside, the storm howled, cracking and growling like a rabid animal.

Derek didn’t chase him away.

When Stiles seemed settled, Derek whispered into the ceiling. “What do you want, Stiles?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” Stiles answered hastily, but then he added. “I mean, everything? If you want, that is. Nothing if you don’t want it. But, not like before. Not like… the first time.”

“Not like the first time…” Derek whispered. “How, then? It was my first time, too, you know. Back then, with her, I was too young, and she was older, and my mother asked her to wait… I’m glad for it now.”

 

Stiles rubbed Derek’s chest in soothing circles. It was warm and safe here. “Don’t think about it now, darling, please, don’t.”

Derek huffed in smile. “Darling?”

But Stiles ignored him. “Will you let me try something?” Stiles asked, propping himself up on the elbow.

Derek looked at him, silently nodding.

All Stiles could see were the whites of his eyes and his teeth, when the storm didn’t flash the entire inside of the hut from time to time. He could see everything then.

Slowly, Stiles leaned towards Derek, and placed a kiss on his lips. It was dry and soft, and, when Derek didn’t pull away, Stiles started rubbing his lips more firmly against Derek’s. It was pure instinct then, to open his mouth and lick across Derek’s lips, who gasped at the sensation, but stayed in place.

“Here,” Stiles said when he got his fill of licking Derek’s mouth. “Hold me,” he pleaded, rubbing himself against Derek’s body.

His cock was hard, poking Derek in his hip, and Stiles wasn’t embarrassed at all.

“Stiles,” Derek groaned, pushing against him, wanting, searching. His arms held Stiles closely, nuzzling his neck, trailing kisses across his skin. “I want… I want you. You have no idea -”

“Yes. Yes, darling, I want it, too,” Stiles said, giddy with happiness. “I don’t care if it hurts, I want you, inside of me, I want you cock, just… take off your gown, please.”

Derek stilled. “You want me to be naked?”

“I want both of us to be naked. Look,” Stiles sat up and took off his nightgown. His pale skin stood in stark contrast with the deep shadows of the room, so young and clean.

Derek’s eyes glued on it like honey on a spoon.

“Look, Derek. Look at me,” Stiles said, redundantly. “Do you like me?”

Derek put his hand on Stiles’ chest. “I… I love you.” He traced it along Stiles’ torso. “People shouldn’t see each other naked.”

“Why not? Who’s going to know, Derek? I feel… I feel like we should be naked in bed. When we… hug and kiss and couple, we should.” Stiles lay back down, throwing his arms over Derek’s body. “I love looking at you. It excites me.”

Derek remained silent.

Hesitantly, Stiles wrapped his fingers around Derek’s hand and dragged it towards his erect cock. “I want you.”

“What about the marital cloth?” Derek whispered, looking shamelessly at Stiles’ nipples.

He kept his hand on Stiles’ dick, just holding it there, not doing anything.

“No. Please, no,” Stiles pleaded. “I can’t stand it. It’s horrible. I want to look at you, your face, your eyes… Don’t you hate it?”

“I – I don’t know,” Derek said quietly. “That’s what I was taught. I think… if no one knows. We’re the only ones here. We can try.”

Stiles smiled then, and kissed Derek again.

They were lying on their sides, plastered together from head to toe, and it was so easy to kiss like that, slotting their mouths and tongues in a perfect puzzle.

Stiles felt Derek’s hard cock pressing against his groin, and he pressed against it in desire.

“Derek…,” he panted. “Bring some oil.”

But Derek couldn’t leave him just yet. He seemed as breathless and excited as Stiles, grabbing roughly Stiles’ buttocks and thighs with needy hands, squeezing them almost reflexively, and pushing his tongue against Stiles’.

Groaning, he stopped himself with effort, it seemed, jumping from the bed like a panther. His heavy cock bobbed up and down between his thighs and Stiles had to look at it - how could he not. It was engorged and bulbous, and Stiles didn’t feel any fear – instead, he felt like his pelvic bones got heavier and his asshole twitched in anticipation.

It would hurt, he knew; but Stiles was ready now, to accept and overcome the hurt until it went away like low tide.

When Derek lay next to him, he put his hand on Stiles’ naked hip and flipped him gently onto his stomach. Stiles sank into the mattress, intrigued; he turned his head on the side so that he could see Derek in the corner of his eye.

Slowly, feather-lightly, he felt Derek’s hands on his buttocks, both of them, caressing.

Stiles started panting, his rigid cock finding relief in the rub against the mattress, Derek’s movements pushing him against it.

Derek caressed him, down his thighs, back across his ass, over his back; up and down, up and down, and Stiles felt himself melting, like all his limbs and bones were made from honey.

 

It seemed that Derek knew everything he did wrong their first time. He repeated his new motions over and over again, as if he wanted to make sure Stiles understood – every touch was redemption, every kiss an apology.

He dragged his lips over Stiles’ neck and back, moving them back again, until he touched the lobe of Stiles’ ear.

“Stiles…” he whispered. “Our sin is very sweet.”

Stiles shivered, and cupped Derek’s cheek in his hand from behind. “Derek, I’m ready. Do it, do it now.”

Derek kissed his hand. “Stay still.”

Stiles heard him uncork the oil and then a drizzle of it fell on his tail bone, trickling slowly between his cheeks.

Derek rubbed him then, over his hole, spreading the oil around in soothing motions. Without any force, Stiles’ hole twitched open, hungry and needy; and when Derek’s fingers massaged over it, the tip of his middle finger caught against the rim quite by accident.

Stiles whined then, encouraging Derek some more. “Push it in, please.”

It didn’t hurt. It was still a little overwhelming, but Stiles was mad with want and need by now. He flexed his hips, fucking himself on Derek’s finger.

“Derek, Derek, you have to hurry, it’ll be over for me soon, I can’t hold it off, I can’t stand it…” Stiles babbled.

Derek soothed him, stroking his back, murmuring incoherent words that Stiles would ask him about the next day.

He called him his sweet temptation, his gentle sin, his innocent love. Stiles thought he had lost his mind.

 

It still burned when Derek’s cock slipped in, making a popping sound. When he pushed all the way into Stiles, he was wet, though he didn’t know he would be.

Derek’s warm slide in and out felt not like the intrusion it had been before, but like something that was already part of Stiles.

He didn’t have any sense of wanting Derek to finish: he reached and pushed against him to feel more.

Derek fucked him, and Stiles hated that it would be over.

But, Stiles couldn’t prolong it any further. He cried out, spilling his release onto the sheets, slumping down into his own mess, limbless and boneless.

Derek didn’t stop, on the contrary – he sped up his thrusts, gasping loudly in sync with them, and Stiles welcomed his cock, waiting, wanting to feel his release. Derek’s whole body shook when he emptied himself inside Stiles, and he couldn’t stop grunting.

When he fell over Stiles like a ragdoll, Stiles smiled into his pillow with soul deep satisfaction.

&&&

In early spring, Stiles’ father came to visit them, bringing Scott along.

Stiles cried, laughing through his tears, and hugged them fiercely while Derek stood awkwardly by his side.

“Oh, don’t mind him,” Stiles said grabbing Derek’s hand, waving their joined fingers a few times. “He’s just shy.”

John raised his eyebrows at his son’s reckless behavior. Derek stiffened, blushing and bowing his head, but John’s laughter made him look up again.

“You’re spitting image of your mother, son. God knows she gave me grief every day,” John said, his words infused with wistful longing.

‘He loved her, too,’ Derek then thought, certain.

 

Stiles took both Scott and his father by their hands then, dragging them around and bragging with his new household, chattering incessantly.

“And when Derek took me to the council – I had to help him carry the furniture, and we got two lambs for it, father – they were discussing the hills which had no water on them, and how to make them habitable, and I told them there had to be a way to bring water there, father, I just knew that we could find the way, and they let me make a drawing for them and I did, Derek and I did it together, we drew a water duct, father, and it is going to bring water from our hill and your hill and other hills to the ones that don’t have it…”

John looked at his son in amazement. “Stiles… that’s… that’s just excellent, son. I’m so proud of you.”

Scott clapped him on the back. “Hey, Stiles, way to go!”

“They asked Derek to build it, and Samuel Tinley and Peter Fincher are going to help him, to make the first one. And then we’ll see if it works,” Stiles just couldn’t stop. “The council said they would give us a reward, farther! If it works,” Stiles added, sheepishly.

He somehow managed to start lunch and talk their ears off simultaneously.

He fed them properly, with fried pies and sour cream which he made from their goat’s milk and lots of fresh salad.

When John went with Derek to see the field, Scott and Stiles relived their childhood days by resting under a tree and talking until they dozed off.

John and Scott stayed for a long time, knowing they wouldn’t be able to visit again soon; Derek and Stiles gave them a whole bag filled with produce as a goodbye gift, and Stiles tried to hide and alleviate his sorrow by sticking to Derek’s side, clutching his arm like a lifeline.

John saw it, of course. “You did good, son, you did good,” were his parting words.

&&&

Afterwards, when Stiles had moped around for a while, fussing about the animals and fixing their coops for a millionth time, he joined Derek inside the hut.

Derek was sitting in a chair, cleaning his nails with a small knife, but Stiles took it away from him and sat right in his lap, hugging him and kissing him on the face and mouth, searching for comfort and happiness.

Derek pulled him closer, rubbing his back and kissing him fiercely back – it was no wonder his dick got hard and it was still day time!

He tried to will it down, to calm himself, but he couldn’t, what with Stiles flexing his hips and rubbing himself against Derek on purpose.

“Stiles, it’s still day,” Derek panted and tried to stop the sinful activity by grasping Stiles’ hips and holding them in place.

“I don’t care, I don’t care, I want you.”

Still watching him, and smiling, Stiles pushed his hand in Derek’s drawers, placed his hand around his dick and began to pump up and down, not too hard, in a controlled efficient rhythm.

His face softened; his eyes, still fixed on Derek, grew glassy. Gradually, almost experimentally, he increased the speed of his hand and the rhythm became less smooth.

Their breathing became loud and shaky, now that Stiles worked furiously with his hand, moaning, almost doubled over in spasmodic agony, as if he was the one on the receiving end of pleasure.

But then Derek let out a new kind of moan, the most desperate and the loudest yet; it quavered as if somebody was hitting him on the voice box.

This died, miraculously, into a peaceful grateful whimper, as semen shot out of him, real whitish stuff, the seed, and caught the hem of Stiles’ trousers.

Stiles straightened up then, shaky, out of breath, and Derek’s eyes fixed on the wet spot on the front of his trousers.

“Did you…,” Derek didn’t know how to ask.

But Stiles kissed him then, smiling against his lips. “I did. And I always will, with you, whenever I want, wherever I want. Do you understand that? I love it. I love you. Call it what you will, I don't care. A sin? All right, then. There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.”

 

 

The end


End file.
